


Embodiment of Opposition

by PrinceofFlowers



Series: Opposition Was His Name [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Also lots of Solas bashing, Arlathan (Dragon Age), Enemies to Friends, Gen, Human to Spirit to Ancient Elf, Maybe - Freeform, Modern Character in Thedas, Other, Questions of Personhood and Body Autonomy, Really fucked up shit happened to OC okay, References to Suicide, references to rape, references to self-mutilation, some hcs about how awful the Evanuris were, transgender character, written by a trans man sup
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-03-06 15:12:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18853606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrinceofFlowers/pseuds/PrinceofFlowers
Summary: After death, a young man found his memories murky as he wandered Thedas before the Veil.Thousands of years later, his memories return, and he decides to take a leap of faith, and joins the Inquisition.However, there is a familiar Wolf that stalks his steps, and he must decide what to do about him.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I decide to play with pronouns in this chapter, because they change, since the character isn’t really aware of gender until later.
> 
> There’s also most of the triggering shit mentioned in this chapter, so be warned. I did mention them less graphically here, and they may or may not be retold in more detail later.
> 
> Also I kinda hate Solas he’s a prick so uh sorry Solas Stans. Ya man can be trash, and there is views of younger Solas being an absolute shit here, but there is growth, so like there’s that.
> 
> Cause while I may not like him, I respect his characterization and the fact that he isn’t wholly bad.
> 
> EDIT- Decided That Harillen was awake way longer than initially written.

In the beginning, they were nameless and formless, and in this state of being, they were content.

There were some memories of a time before, where they were constrained to a physical body, memories of a world very different from the one they dwelled in now, but those memories were faint wisps, possibly imagination, if a spirit were capable of such things, so they paid them little mind.

Instead, they would roam aimlessly, answering questions ancient elves (ancient? why did they think they were ancient?) had for them.

In hindsight, they wished they had never done this.

For among the elves who asked them questions, there were some Elvhen children.

Twins, the eldest sons of Elgar’nan and Mythal.

Falon’Din and Dirthamen.

A strange closeness was between these two twin souls, seeming to exist as shadows or reflections of one another.

The two were one in their enjoyment of the spirit, and they would converse with them often.

Years and years passed, and the boys grew.

And Dirthamen ventured away from his twin, only to return, bound closer to him than before.

The spirit recognized the fear in his eyes, the terrible truths the boy (for he was still a boy to them) must have uncovered.

If they were capable of sympathy or empathy (the spirit was, once- such things ruled them for a time, but that made no sense-), then they’d feel such things towards the boy then.

Not now, however.

Now, they felt nothing but disdain, and hatred towards them, towards their wretched mother, who locked him in this fleshy prison, and to that wretched wolf who lounged at her side.

With the pain of their renewed physical existence, they recalled more pieces of their (his? was it his? The elves call them her-) life before, their end, and the freedom they had enjoyed as a spirit.

Freedom now snatched away by the greedy hands of these clueless children and their overindulgent mother.

“Why have you done such a thing?!” Were their first words. “Why would you trap me in such a way?! Consign me to an existence of suffering in a body that is not my own?!”

The foolish elves didn’t understand.

They couldn’t comprehend the gravity of what they had done.

They didn’t see the spirit, now elf, as a living being with feelings, and if they did, they considered such things beneath their own desires.

Or perhaps they thought it a great honor, to be given physical form.

Whatever their intentions, the once-spirit despised the outcome with a rage that never died.

They were unruly in their new form and position, something that entertained the evanuris for a time, before they became tired with their stubbornness and pride.

The twins had lost interest in their shiny new toy after hundreds of years of this attitude, but their mother thought it a waste of her power to allow this being the comfort of returning to their original form.

Instead, she gave them to her other son, June, as if they were some object to be given away and claimed.

The spirit regretted everything once they were given into his grasp.

June was an odd one, the spoiled youngest son of his parents, the prodigy child.

He loved to tinker, to discover the meanings of complex things, and the spirit was one such thing.

It was torture being beneath his thumb, perhaps worse than if they were given to bloodthirsty Andruil, or that air-headed Ghilan’nain.

Hell (where did they get that word? What is hell? It felt like this, they thought.), they would have preferred the violence of Elgar’nan, or even the pride of that wolf, who had only ever watched with thinly veiled interest at their plight.

June’s sister? Wife?

Sylaise, that young woman, she was one of the worst, in their opinion, for it was her healing that staved off their death.

For they were of mind that death could free them from this accursed existence, and after June had finished “tinkering” with them one night, they had stumbled into the bathroom, and shattered the glass of the mirror, and took the shards to their body.

It was not a clean attempt at death.

It was more akin to a viscous mutilation, focused on eyes, chest, and between their legs, meant to lead to a death filled with agony, the unrelenting pain drowning out the hollowness, the shame of what had been done to them.

Pain so excessive, it drowned out all thought, and in that abyss, they found peace.

Or, at least they would have, if not for the meddling of that whelp, Sylaise.

They remember waking slowly, body numb, chest hollow, to a flurry of voices and movement.

Arguments among the evanuris, the wolf among them showing his outrage as well- a surprise, to be certain.

It took a while of focusing for the spirit turned elf to piece together what they were shouting about.

Apparently, it was them that they screamed themselves hoarse over.

Mythal was there, and the spirit sensed an overwhelming amount of horror from her when she focused her attention on them.

This had been the first time in the People’s history that they had ever witnessed such an act, and it had shaken the evanuris to their very cores.

They could not comprehend why this being would enact such violence towards themselves.

The damage was extensive, but it had been enough of a stir to grant the spirit some semblance of peace, as Mythal had ordered her children to leave them be, still too shaken by their appearance and actions.

Instead, they were left to heal, their body mostly whole and healthy by the time Sylaise had finished her healing, save for the sanity and sight of the spirit.

“Why can you not heal her eyes?” Pride had asked.

Internally, the spirit wondered why that hurt. Why “her” hurt.

“She won’t let me.” Sylaise answered. “Her body rejects any and all attempts. And when it doesn’t, she only damages them again.”

The spirit could feel the sharp, questioning gaze of the wolf fall upon them.

“Why do you let yourself remain blind?” He asked.

“There is no beautiful thing in this world for me to see, save for the pained expressions upon the faces of those who have twisted me from what I am.” Was their answer, sharp and dripping venom.

They grinned, a broken thing, all jagged and sharp, as they felt the wolf flinch.

They felt him actually feel something akin to guilt, akin to empathy, before he had walked away.

However, that was not the last they saw of the wolf.

Once they had healed enough, Mythal had passed down decision yet again.

June had now lost interest, so they were to be passed onto someone else once more.

This time, the All-Mother herself had laid claim to them.

She fitted them into her temple, amongst her priests and warrior-priests, a place where the spirit met Sorrow.

Sorrow often morphed into irritation at their sharp words, and even rage as they spat insults, blasphemy, against the goddess.

“She gave you mercy! Gave you physical form, gave you respite in her temple, and you curse her name?! You dare?!” Bellowed Sorrow, one day, finally having snapped at the words that trailed from the spirit’s tongue.

“She gave me pain, and suffering. She gave me to her horrible sons, as if I were some thing to be passed around, like a toy. Her only mercy was to take me in for herself, out of the shocked horror my attempted suicide and my self-mutilation brought her, and even so, this mercy was more for her own selfish feelings rather than genuine care for my being.” 

They took a breath, before continuing.

“If she were truly this great, merciful goddess you and so many others make her out to be, then she would have either let me die, or returned me to my natural state of being.” 

Their words stunned him for a moment, as if their words were actually being considered, but then there came that devotion for the All-Mother, which triumphed over any epiphanies.

“She still granted you the mercy of staying here, safe from the hands of her sons, who have treated you cruelly.” Said Sorrow.

“I should not thank anyone for showing the most basic forms of compassion and kindness!” They bit back. “Such things should be commonplace and expected, without need for praise.”

And with the turn of a heel, they left Sorrow to stew in his rage.

Most of their time in the temple was spent in a similar way, with their only interactions with others being arguments and hate-filled words.

That, and the visits from that damn wolf.

Pride, he was called, and pride he was, for his constant hounding of their every movement was product of his pride in one way or another.

It fascinated him, in a morbid way.

This being, who was unlike any he had ever encountered, fascinated him, and he would willingly engage in verbal battles with them, these altercations stemming from overly curious questions on his part.

“Why are you so filled with rage, falon?” He would ask. “What was your purpose before?”

“Don’t call me friend.” They managed to bite out. “Who would not be enraged at such an existence? Would you not be filled with bitterness and anger over having every freedom stripped from you? Of having your very self snatched away? Of whatever sanctity of your body being perverted against your will?”

He flinched at that, and they took a sick satisfaction from it.

“You didn’t answer my last question.” Pride stated after composing himself.

“I no longer recall what I once was, only that whatever it was has now been twisted into this- THIS!!! Whatever THIS is!” They howled, before leaving the wolf, off to hide somewhere in the temple, away from prying eyes.

He was a constant bother to them, never seeming to get the hint that they hated him, their only delight found in the laxing vigilance of the priests and warrior-priests, which allowed him more freedom to indulge in his self-destructive tendencies.

“What is your name?” He had asked once. “For millennia you have walked among us, yet not once have I ever seen you respond to any name. Everyone seems to call you something different.”

“Ask them, then.” They scoffed. “I am nothing more than a pet to them, am I not? Do pets- do THINGS, name themselves? And were I to have a name that I saw as myself, you think I would offer it to any of you savages?”

They shook their head.

“No; not when so much of myself has already been taken. I care very little of what you and yours call me, you heinous wench. So bark on, like the dog you are.” They spat.

The prideful wolf had tensed at their words, enraged at the gall they had, the insults they delivered with no fear.

“You should thank the All-Mother.” He had finally said, voice a chilling calm. “For it is only my love and respect for her that stays my hand.”

Their face twisted into a sick, broken grin.

“Poor little puppy.” They cooed. “That’s alright. I tear myself to shreds enough for anyone.”

And with that, they revealed a dagger they had stolen from a warrior-priest, and sliced through their own skin faster than the wolf could react.

They remembered, with glee, the shout of horror and surprise he had let out as they fell and bled, and part of them wished to restore their eyes just so they could take in the sight of that horror filling pride’s eyes.

Their sickening delight with such a response was short-lived, as their attempt was too public, too easily prevented to have actually succeeded.

Instead, they wake yet again, healing from their self-inflicted injuries.

However, instead of Sylaise, it was Pride who sat by his side, seeming very tired, and inwardly drawn.

“Thwarted again, once by Sylaise, and now by Solas.” Were their first words, jolting the wolf from his thoughts. 

They turned their head towards him. “Couldn’t let me die, for fear of you precious goddess, hmm? Nothing more than a loyal dog to his mistress, you heinous wench.”

“Please.” He begged, running a hand down his own face as his shoulders slumped in exhaustion. “I haven’t the energy to trade barbs with you, Harillen.”

They cocked their head at that.

“Opposition?” They questioned, their eyesight surprisingly somewhat restored, enough to make out the faintest of expressions on faces.

It was with their partially healed eyes that they saw an almost bitter smile twitch upon the wolf’s face.

“Yes.” He answered. “I thought it fitting, since you seem to embody such sentiments against the evanuris.”

He then straightened up, his posture less weary now, more attentive, more sharp.

“There has been whispers of you since your first attempt, now, even more so.” He informed them. “Many look to you as a muse, for opposition and rebellion against the tyranny of these would-be gods.”

“Using me, are you?” They said, for they, too, had heard whispers, but more of him and rebellion. “As if Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf, He Who Hunts Alone, is not enough for your attempts at usurping power.”

“Perhaps,” He began. “I will not be hunting alone forever.”

That got their attention.

“Harillen.” He spoke, as if it were their name. “I have a proposition for you.”

And who were they to refuse?

The only thing they craved more than their own death was the fall of those that had caged them in such a way.

The enemy of his enemy shall be his friend.

So they helped in small ways, their role steadily increasing as the envanuris became more and more tyrannical, as Fen’Harel became more and more of a rebellion leader.

All things finally reached their climax as Mythal was assassinated, causing the Dread Wolf to howl in his fury and sorrow, and finally tear the Fade from the world.

Harillen as they were more commonly known as now, had hoped this would have killed them, or freed them.

Instead, they fell into a long sleep, awakening to a world much different from the one they had lived in.

Old memories of a life they- no, He, had once lived.

A life that recognized this Thedas.

A life that recognized the Hero of Ferelden.

A life that recognized the Champion of Kirkwall.

A life that recognized the Breach that tore the sky decades after his waking.

For now, he’d keep the name Harillen, for he was an elf now, and he would see about repairing the Veil.

Repairing the Veil, and thwarting that wolf he called comrade once long ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NO PROOFREADING WE DIE LIKE MEN


	2. Reunited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Opposition meets Pride in the chaos of the Hinterlands.
> 
> There is a reunion of sorts.
> 
> More words are left unspoken than said.
> 
> Harillen joins the Inquisition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Decided on THINGS now- Varric knows Harillen. Still feels kinda funky with that added in- not as smooth, but wyd.
> 
> Cassandra, please. He’s blind, not incapable of fighting. Varric told you stories, and he didn’t embellish TOO MUCH.
> 
> Btw Harillen, like all “ancient elves” has magic, but he can do all three classes whenever needed.
> 
> Here, he’s mostly a warrior.
> 
> EDIT AGAIN: decided that Harillen’s protege is also his son, and that after DA2 ended, he went off with Fenris instead of Anders.

Harillen knew he’d see Solas again if he tossed himself into the Inquisition.

That didn’t stop him from their spirited reunion when they happened upon one another in the Hinterlands.

He had been fighting a few templars when the Inquisitor and his party showed up, Harillen sensing them through his magic, which he sent through the ground to “see” his enemies and surroundings, almost like echolocation.

“Harillen!” Solas had cried out, genuinely surprised and happy to see him and feel his magic. “You’re alive!”

“ELF” Harillen barked out as a response, head turned towards where he approximated Solas to be, face fierce as he blocked and parried his foes. “How did I guess you’d be in the thick of trouble, you heinous wench?!”

Solas grimanced at the familiar insult, but chuckled fondly, throwing a barrier over him as well as his party.

Then, as if to add injury to insult, Harillen called out, quite happily, to Varric.

“Varric! How is my favorite storyteller?” 

If Harillen could see, he’d probably smirk gleefully at the surprised, almost jealous, but mostly confused, expression on Solas’ face.

“Old Man!” Varric called out, delightfully surprised as he shot down enemies. “Shit, how’ve you been?”

Harillen cut an enemy down before replying.

“Wondering what the fuck happened in the world this time, and why I end up wandering into the thick of it!” 

Varric just laughed, and would have replied, if not for Cassandra chiding the two for talking so casually in the middle of a fight.

The small talk ended for now, they made quick work of the templars.

“Still so spiteful, after all these years. Come, old friend. It has been too long.” Solas said, approaching Harillan after battle, arms outstretched.

Harillen allowed the embrace, as it let him pat Solas over, get acquainted with what he couldn’t see beneath his blindfold, the closeness allowing him to brush his magic over Solas, checking him over for injuries, and taking stock of him in general.

Admittedly, part of him did ease in his embrace. 

It had been a while since he’d last been hugged, as he had left his protege/son with Fenris a while ago, and the responding brush of magic from Solas was far more comforting that it should have been, a quiet intimacy he had gone years without, as none of his companions since he had woken years before ever had that sort of magical control.

He'd never admit that, though, abandoning that train of thought as his hand went up to tangle in the long hair Solas once had, hair he knew Solas hadn’t had for many years.

It was still shocking, however, and were it not for the sunlight, he would have snatched the blindfold from his eyes to see- as much as he could see, for himself.

“What’s this, then? Bald, finally, eh? So much for your long, luscious locks now, pretty boy.” Harillen teased before removing himself from Solas’ rather tight, almost desperate embrace.

Solas had startled a bit at the “pretty boy” comment, but said nothing, only chuckled fondly, warmly, at him.

“He used to have long hair?” Asked a deep voice, the Herald’s voice, probably.

“Yeah, shows how old we both are, and how long we’ve known each other, that I know that.” Harillen replied. “Used to grab him by his dumb, long hair and tug him around when I was pissed with him.”

“Harillen, you did that almost every time we saw each other.” Solas deadpanned, both of them ignoring the fact that Solas had shaved his head and had kept it bald for a while since the last time they had met.

Neither wanted to think about that at the moment, for different reasons.

“My point exactly.” Harillen shot back with a toothy grin.

Varric laughed, or at least Harillen knew it was Varric who was laughing, and he turned his head downward, in his direction, for just a moment, deciding to greet the dwarf properly after he finished verbally yanking Solas around.

“Reminds me- how the hell am I supposed to do that now that you’re bald? What, do I just slap your bald head?!” Harillen continued on.

“I-“

Solas was cut off by Harillen slapping the back of his bald head.

Varric and the Herald both laughed at that, while Cassandra let out her legendary disgusted noise.

Harillen then turned to Varric, and greeted him warmly.

“Anyways, fill in the old, blind elvhen man on just what the fuck is going on right now.” Harillen said after he had hugged the dwarf.

He was then brought up to speed and introduced to the group, discovering that the Herald was a Dalish Warrior named Thalion.

A fitting name, since it meant “hero”.

“Would you like to join us?” The Herald offered. “We could always use more capable warriors.”

“Herald, he’s-“ Cassandra protested, probably looking at the blindfold hiding Harillen‘s light-sensitive, mostly blind eyes.

“Been fighting without my eyes since before you were born.” Harillen cut her off, looking in her general direction sternly. “Solas And Varric can attest to my skills in battle. I would not mind helping the fledgling Inquisition on their quest to close the Breach.”

“Both his bark and his bite are powerful.” Solas supported. “He will be of great help to the Inquisition. Furthermore, he is old and wise, even though he is harsh with his words.”

“He is one tough son of a bitch.” Varric agreed. “You remember the stories I told you, Seeker.”

Cassandra made another disgusted noise, and flushed just a bit.

Meanwhile, Harillen decided to banter with Solas.

“Mostly to you, Pride.” Harillen bit back, smirking. “Someone has to take you down a notch, else your head will grow too large for your skinny neck to support.”

“You really haven’t changed.” Solas grumbled, though there was a nostalgic fondness to his tone.

Harillen only barked out a laugh, slapping Solas’ back hard enough to make him stumble.

“This old man is happy to help you young pups out as best he can.” Harillen said, motioning towards himself. “Besides, it is better for us old timers, who are not long for this world as it is, to risk our lives, rather than a young man who has so much more life to live.”

Harillen could feel the weight of his words weighing heavily and somber upon the group, save Solas, who he felt a spark of fear and concern from.

With a kindness he didn’t deserve, Harillen gently patted Solas’ arm as means of comforting him, the last squeeze he gave his arm speaking of later discussions as it reassured him.

The group chatted a bit longer to insure they were all on the same page before tarrying forth to brave the mess that the Hinterlands had been reduced to from the Breach’s chaos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NO PROOFREADING WE DIE LIKE MEN


	3. It’s Not Romance, Cass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisitor and Cassandra ask questions about Harillen, and he answers while avoiding Solas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is like. Some filler for Harillen, kind of explaining what he does.
> 
> Cassandra thinks of weird shipping Shit and Harillen is Disgusted.

Harillen was a great help to the Herald and his party, especially since he could easily switch tactics to better suit his companions.

“You are a Mage.” Cassandra stated, though she sounded puzzled. “Yet you fight like a warrior.”

“I can play the rogue, as well.” Harillen added. “I’ve lived a long time, Seeker Cassandra. An elvhen apostate for my whole life. It is not safe, nor is it smart, for me to have only my magic to defend myself and those around me.”

“Like Solas?” She questioned. “I know you two mentioned knowing each other.”

Harillen huffed out a laugh.

“Yes, something like that. He’s capable on his own, but we were all young troublemakers once.”

Cassandra let out a wistful sigh. “How romantic.”

Harillen suppressed the urge to gag at the thought.

Him and Solas?

The jackass who had originally stood there and watched as Harillen was tormented and torn apart by his fellow god-kings?

Oh, if only she knew.

Thankfully, Solas was willing to redirect that misconception.

“Less so if you were there, I assure you.” He said. “I’m sure Harillen caused more trouble waving a sword around than my magic ever did.”

“That’s probably true.” Harillen relented. “But the sword is useful when hit by a Templar Smite. Solas gets absolutely floored then. Luckily, I’ve gotten used to the pain. The only issue is that it is harder to tell where they are and what they’ll do without my magic.”

The topic easily switched to his blindness, completely dropping any possible romantic connotations to his relationship with Solas.

Instead, there were questions on how he saw in battle, or in general, and whether or not he was born blind.

“I’d rather not discuss how I lost my eyesight.” Harillen said firmly, closing any discussion on it.

The hinted discomfort worked well to dissuade any further conversation or debate over it, especially with Solas’ clearly distressed and uncomfortable body language.

He was still disturbed by the thought of what Harillen had done in the past.

“I will say this,” Harillen added. “I have healed a bit, and am not completely blind, but my eyes are sensitive to the light now. I can just barely make out figures of people, and if I am nose-to-nose, I can make out their face, at least. Otherwise, they’re useless, so I blindfold myself during the day, and often even keep them closed at night.”

“So they can be healed?” Thalion asked.

“Not worth the effort at this point.” Harillen answered. “I personally don’t care to restore my eyesight right now. I’ve spent decades blind- longer than you’ve been alive, da’len, and I have made peace with it. Perhaps one day, I might be affable to restoring my sight, but for now, I am content.”

Harillen could feel Solas’ eyes on him, and feel the gentle, testing brush of his magic against his own.

He fought back the urge to react, but knew that he’d have to answer his multitude of questions, probably in the Fade, later.

Instead, he’d focus on the now.

Those problems were the problems of future Harillen.

For now, he’d get through camps of crazy Templars and Mages, and do whatever was needed to help the people who were ravaged by the Rifts and war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NO PROOFREADING WE DIE LIKE MEN


	4. Catching up in the Fade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas and Harillen finally get to discuss things in the Fade.
> 
> Solas is a horribly cuddly man, and Harillen kicks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harillen is still an angry, Solas-hating bastard, but he’s just a nice person, so he hasn’t absolutely annihilated Solas. 
> 
> Yet.
> 
> Also Solas? Your clinginess is showing.

Harillen wasn’t looking forward to the long talk and countless questions Solas would have for him, but night had fallen, and it was time to sleep.

Which meant he was stuck in the Fade, with Solas.

Alone.

There was no need to speak in “Common” here, when it was just them, any spirits or wisps or demons scared off by Solas.

Solas had immediately found him, partially due to his insistence of the two sharing a tent- something didn’t care for, and partially due to Solas’ familiarity with him.

So, now he had to answer a slew of questions, and bring Solas up to speed on how long he’d been awake, what he’d been up to, and what was going on.

“We can’t tell the truth, so we need to lie consistently.” Was part of Solas’ logic.

That, and he honestly wanted to know what Harillen had been doing over the years he’d been awake.

Apparently, he’d been all over the place-

Since Solas had never gotten rid of Mythal’s vallaslin from his face, he was able to be accepted in Dalish clans, the first of one being around Tevinter, though it was killed off, with any remaining members, including Harillen himself, enslaved.

Solas gritted his teeth at that.

“Are there any left alive?” He asked darkly.

Harillen scoffed.

“As if I’d let them live.” He responded. “I started a small slave revolt, and escaped with some other enslaved elvhen, and we ran off to the Ferelden area around the time of the last Blight. High-tailed it out of there to the Free Marches, though I made a few stops here and there.”

He then talked of his protégée, a young elvhen mage who had been made tranquil- a state that Harillen corrected quickly. 

Harillen carefully avoided stating that he was actually also his biological son.

“He’s still recovering, mentally and emotionally from what he went through as a tranquil, but he can use magic again, and he’s healing.” Harillen recalled, pride coloring his words. “He was as angry as I used to be. Kinda made me calm down, taking care of him.”

It was true- the experience was very healing to Harillen, and as such, it allowed him to find some peace after all he’d experienced.

It was odd for Solas to witness, and he seemed a mixture of relieved and jealous at that.

Relieved that Harillen might, just might be, less likely to snap his head off.

Jealous because part of him wanted Harillen, the only piece of the past Solas had come across that wasn’t in ruins, all to himself.

Though, he knew it was wrong of him to feel so.

As wrong as it was to leave him with Mythal’s vallaslin.

“Should I remove it?” Solas asked, fingers hovering over Harillen’s face. “The vallaslin.”

“Not yet.” Harillen said. “I may need them for a while longer.”

Specifically, he knew, he remembered from his old life, that there was a particularly uppity Dalish First roaming the Hinderlands that they somehow hadn’t come across today.

And he wanted to tell her what for, first.

However, he would need the vallaslin removed before they came across Flemeth.

He refused to be bound to her, or anyone else, ever again.

Solas didn’t know any of this, however.

He also didn’t know that Harillen planned on stopping him from tearing down the Veil, but as far as Harillen was concerned, he didn’t need to know any of that.

Solas did, however, still question his decision to post pone the removal of the vallaslin.

“The Herald is Dalish.” Harillen stated. “It’d be strange to him if my vallaslin suddenly disappeared.”

He then grew a bit serious.

“If you removed them, then an explanation on what they really are will be in order. Do you really think he trusts you well enough to believe you over the teachings he grew up with?”

Solas tensed at the thought, then relaxed.

“You are right, of course.” He admitted. “Ma serannas, lethallin.”

Harillen hummed in response.

From there, they discussed future plans, Solas assuming that Harillen would be on board with his plans of tearing down the Veil.

He was wrong, but Harillen wasn’t going to correct him.

Not when it gave him access to intel that he’d need to stop him later.

However, he would try to convince him otherwise.

Gently, as time and healing had allowed Harillen to be gentle again.

Not for Solas’ benefit, but for Harillen himself, since he knew how stubborn Solas could be.

“Why not slowly dissolve the Veil?” Harillen asked. “We could do it over the course of a few centuries at least, and it would cause less damage on both ends, while allowing ample time to prepare for what is to come.”

Harillen could feel the exhaustion come from Solas at the thought.

“It’s too risky.” He answered. “Too risky, and extremely complicated.”

“Scared that it’ll weaken to the point where they shatter it?” Harillen asked. “I can help with that. I relish in the thought of killing those fuckers. Besides, I’ve never known you for someone who shrinks at a challenge.”

Solas let out a humorless chuckle.

“I’m not sure even our combined strength could make that possible. Ir Abelas, lethallin, but unless we discover a way that we know will work, I don’t think I can risk it.”

Harillen mulled over it.

“We still have time.” He says. “Just- keep it in mind, okay? I’ll be doing a lot of digging on my own in the meantime.”

“Of course.”

Their discussion finally died down, leaving them in silence for whatever remained of their sleep.

Soon, they both awoke, and to Harillen’s distaste, Solas had wrapped himself around him at some point during the night.

His magic had been swirling around him, almost smothering, like how you’d desperately cling onto someone you loved dearly, and hadn’t seen in years.

In the past, Harillen would have reacted violently, but he was softer now, and more forgiving.

He brushed his magic back, not nearly as eagerly as Solas had, but enough to hear Solas sigh contently, his hot breath blowing against the skin of Harillen’s neck.

He did, however, still kick Solas in the shin for his troubles.

He did have an image to keep, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NO PROOFREADING WE DIE LIKE MEN

**Author's Note:**

> NO PROOFREADING WE DIE LIKE MEN


End file.
